


Glacial

by Zenna_Crell47



Series: Old FanFictions [8]
Category: 101 Dalmatians (1961), Disney - All Media Types, Disney Villians
Genre: F/M, I get to cameo!, Inspired by Fanfiction, Reader has a cat, Reader is a business woman, Reader is so done, Rule 63, Sassy Reader, Set in America, bullying in the workplace, genderbender, genderbent Cruella de Vil, inspired by another work on deviantART, like Stan Lee!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 10:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17527040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zenna_Crell47/pseuds/Zenna_Crell47
Summary: Inspired heavily by LeFantomeDancer's "Viper's... " series on deviantART. I fully encourage you to seek out her work! It's absolutely marvellous; I can't sing her praises enough!As an American business woman in marketing for national and international businesses, you've got your work cut out for you on a regular basis. Throw in the added complications that accompany a certain international fashion mogul and his diva attitude when he sets his sights on you, and you've got a recipe for disaster. Will it be worth it? Getting tangled up with the Devil never sounded like a good idea, but when he looks like an angel, it's harder to resist than you thought it could ever be...Part of a collection of writings I've written and originally posted on other sites. Formats have been changed to suit my current style of writing, but the content remains otherwise unchanged.This one was originally posted May 11, 2016 on deviantART (the first chapter). Will eventually be finished.Disclaimer: I know little to nothing about the business world in relation to marketing and such. I'm just rolling with it, so it shouldn't be too big in this story...





	Glacial

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Viper's Muse](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/451859) by LeFantomeDancer. 



> My Male!Cruella's name is Cruelleur, which looks funny, but makes more sense (to me, at least) for the pronunciation I have in mind.  
> So, it's CRU-EL-LEUR, “leur” as in “fleur,” with a very soft, almost indistinct “R.” Got it?  
> Also, headcanon: Male!Cruella starts mixing French in with his English the more he gets annoyed.  
> Enjoy~

“Hush, Chesh!” you scolded softly. “If you wake up Mr. Tailor next door again, I'm kicking you out at night – and that means no more late-night snuggles and midnight snacks!”  
  
Your tortoise-shell tabby, whom you had named Cheshire whimsically when he was a kitten, mewed pitifully and rubbed up against your ankles. You sighed and rolled to your side, inviting the infuriating little demon to curl up in the crook between your belly and your legs, as was his habit… when he wasn't trying to be a stud-muffin to the lady-cats of the neighborhood.  
  
Sighing, you relaxed into your bed and tried to melt away the stresses of the day. It had been really stressful lately, at work, what with the collaboration the higher-ups had started with an acclaimed fashion magazine, and you were justifiably exhausted. As a business woman in the world of advertising and marketing, you were accustomed to working with a variety of peoples, the most of which were pleasant to work with, if a bit tense about making deadlines. However, you had never met a more high-strung bunch than those belonging to the fashion world. Honestly, the older man you were meant to “collab” with appeared to be close to either a hernia or a heart-attack – whichever came first, really. To be clear, you weren't all that interested in fashion. Sure, you liked to window shop on the odd occasion you had time to yourself, and you enjoyed the once-every-blue-moon splurge on something nice for yourself, but this company was one that you barely knew. According to your friends and associates at work, it was a company normally catering to the upper classes in Europe, but they were branching out into the American upper classes because the number of people who raged over real fur and other genuine animal materials were decreasing. Therefore, the approach had to be fairly aggressive, but tasteful enough to fit the image the company had already established in Europe.  
  
You sighed, bemoaning your lot silently. It was times like this, where you had little say in what would be advertised and how it should be done and to whom, that you questioned whether or not your business degree was really worth all the trouble. But Cheshire drew your thoughts back to himself by swatting playfully at your face, mewing sleepily, as if admonishing you for thinking too much when sleep was needed. Seeing his little face glaring at you, just as you had done to him only moments ago, brought a smile to your lips. And with that, you adjusted yourself one last time.  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
The entire way to work that next morning was filled with the sound of your cellular phone for work screaming new notifications from your coworkers and friends. At the twenty-fifth notification in the past ten minutes, you pulled your car over to the side of the road to check what the fuss was about. At that point, you were practically expecting to be told to turn around and go home because the building was on fire, or some such thing… To your consternation and annoyance, the grander part of them came from the giggly, single women you worked with from previous projects, all of whom were gushing about someone special who was supposed to show up at the office that day through group chat – all about which you couldn't care less. Two texts were from your collaboration-partner from the fashion company, apologizing to you for his absence that day due to the fact that he had a medical appointment he had forgotten about until that morning, and also reminding you to send a copy of whatever you tried to create to him for review and critique. With a low groan, you rested your forehead on your steering wheel, trying to will the preemptive headache away. And, if that wasn't enough, you recognized that next tone to be an alert from your supervisor.  
  
Expecting the worst, you glanced at that last and groaned again. _“Meet me in my office as soon as you arrive, please,”_ it said. _“I've got a special project for you coming directly from the Big Bossman, himself!”_ Those deals never ended well for your physical health due to overworking yourself, though you often got a promotion or pay-raise due to the fact that you produced results, not just finished projects.  
  
“Perfect,” you muttered crossly. “Just perfect.”  
  
When you finally arrived, the entire building was alive with hushed whispers and the occasional, carrying squeal. The cacophony wrapped around you as if it were another skin, and it utterly, thoroughly destroyed the last of your hopes for a good day. Any day where the excitable employees could be riled into a frenzy of gossip and loquaciousness spelled a day in a virtual Hell for you. You contended silently with the sudden interest in feigning ailment and returning to your home to simply save yourself the heartache, but you had already been spotted by some friends. Great. Just your luck. They were good friends, and very productive coworkers! But they could get silly when they were excited… Which was why you rarely spent time with them outside of the work-environment.  
  
The shortest of the trio you called your circle of friends from work, Zenna, called, “There you are!” She flicked a stray hair away from her face to beam at you. “I've been looking for you all over the place!”  
  
Tabby, the tallest, continued, “Heard you got called in to Rick's 'cave.' We think we know why.”  
  
Samme, the ever-present optimist, near about burst as she proclaimed, “You're going to be put in charge of the project, like head-honcho status! I'm surprised they haven't come to this conclusion sooner, to be honest.”  
  
You groaned and let your head chin fall to your chest. “Oh, the joy...” You hissed, cradling your head in your hands. “Can we chat more later? I still need to check in with Rick, or he'll have my hide…”  
  
And indeed, your friends were correct. With direct orders from “above,” you were given full reign on the collaboration-project with the fashion magazine. In the mean while, your supervisor and your boss were set to negotiate future collaborations with the CEO of the magazine company. This, of course, meant many, many meetings with both your colleagues as well as with your boss and the fashion magazine's boss, trying to produce the best results with so many conflicting opinions and seeking for middle ground where it otherwise wouldn't be found. But, thankfully, all that headache wouldn't begin until until after you finished with your current project… which would be by the next day…  
  
“I hate this,” you groaned, resting your forehead on the edge of your desk and slumping over your lap. And you wished that you had your friends nearby to complain, but they all worked on separate floors. Trying to get close enough to talk would be nigh impossible, they were so busy, besides. You whined pitifully, quietly to yourself. You figured it might just be easier to curl up and die on your desk rather than facing the daunting tasks ahead of you…  
  
Faint titters in the background drew your attention away from your pity-party and back into the real world, where it belonged. Still slumped over and generally disinterested, you lazily angled your face towards the source of the commotion, which had been steadily increasing volume.  
  
Suddenly, someone burst out, “There he is!~”  
  
Immediately, your noted your belly as it roiled at the exact same moment the other women (and a few men) in the room – all of whom had mysteriously gravitated over to the entrance and hovered all about it – erupted in muted cheers and restrained nervous giggles. Visage taken-over by a frown, you returned to your face-desking. You had no interest in fawning over whatever meat-candy the others had picked up on at the moment. They did it all too often, what with all of the independent models checking in to review and receive referrals for other various jobs (sometimes even over handsome, visiting employees from collaborating or contracting companies), and it was a sickening habit that gradually made you otherwise immune to their forced attentions. But, it was the faint click of low heels and the rustle of fine leather, as well as the distant scent of cigarette smoke, that made you open your eyes this time, and tilt your head so you could watch for whatever the others were ogling…  
  
What you had expected and what you actually saw turned out to be two totally different specimens. And you found yourself pinned, stuck staring openly with the sensation of being cornered, though you were on opposite ends of the room. The man you had expected to see was one of finely chiseled, brawny muscles in the tightened threads of a model that too often found himself in a tanning booth; this refined person that met your gaze in reality was enough to steal your breath away. A chill slipped down your spine, as if those red-gloved fingers danced their way all the way down. With a sharp breath, you straightened up and nodded cordially, swallowing painfully the sudden dryness of your throat. One perfect, dark eyebrow rose as a satisfied, smug smirk pulled at his pale lips. That much alone was enough to alert you to the diva within this man. Clearly, he knew the effect he had on the people around him, and he didn't care too much beyond the attention it brought him, for whatever reason. Ugh.  
  
Obviously just another stuck up model with his head blow up far too large for his slender neck to support. Of course, you had your own awkwardness when it came to attractive men, but you obviously had nothing to do with each other. For the sake of maintaining a professional image, you resisted the urge to stick your tongue out at the drama-king as he walked by…  
  
With an unamused snort, you tore your gaze away from those highlighted, accentuated – delicious – masculine features to focus on your work. Enough time had been wasted before that moment of distraction, as it was. You had a job to do, and only so much time to do it in. No way was some show-off tomcat going to keep you from facing this project anything less than head-on. You had jobs to delegate and direct and complete before you could even begin overseeing the whole project!  
  
The click of leather heels on the tiles wandered far from you, as did the tittering, signaling that the gossips had followed the mysteriously gorgeous man away. You breathed just a fraction easier as you began to formulate a plan to conquer this obstacle. It might mean a little less sleep at night, and getting in to the office a little earlier in the morning than usual, but if it made your bosses happy, so be it…    
  
Oh, but didn't it come as a _surprise_ when you saw that the man you has assumed to be a snobbish model on the front cover of the draft for the magazine, advertised as the man who had set this collaboration in motion: Cruelleur DeVil, “the ruler of the fashion world…”  
  
Some days later, you were stressing over the finer details of the project you were conducting, realizing that you'd need greater input from your boss and perhaps the international fashion mogul, as well. You were feeling bogged down more than usual from the stress of acting director, and also from the unsupportive staff you had been assigned. The four silly women of the group, two of which you had  semi-successfully worked with before, somehow were under the impression that you had rigged the situation in your favor, gaining quality time not only with your boss, but also with the man who started it all – Cruelleur DeVil. Though, in reality, you barely had the chance to leave your desk for a second to breathe during your lunch break, let alone regular breaks to alleviate the stressful environment. You hadn't even officially met Mr. DeVil! But that didn't seem to matter to them. They were mostly from different departments, and they never saw you apart from when they reported in to inform you on their progress…  
  
Finally! Lunch break! Breathing just a fraction easier, you left your desk and made for your car, humming a soothing tune to yourself as you ambled. But that semi-good mood was destroyed the second you laid eyes on your car. From the beginning, it wasn't a particularly expensive or beautiful car – just something that ran faithfully to get you wherever you needed to be. But to see it scratched, keyed, defaced with spray-paint every derogatory term or insult in the book, and tires slashed?  
  
Tears of anger and frustration threatened to fall, pouring down your cheeks. But no. There was something wrong with this picture – other than the fact that your car just got vandalized. Your jaw clenched as a low growl peeped through your lips. With a quick spin on your heel, you marched back into the building and sought out the front-desk secretary, Monique-Chérone. Luckily for you, she was still there, packing up some last minute things before she left on her break. _“Chère,_ hold up!” you called hoarsely. Well… the French lessons from so long ago always seemed to resurface when you were around the French-Canadian secretary, for one reason or another, if only for a nickname for her… After all, she had always tried to be like an older sister or aunt to everyone at the office.  
  
The kind secretary glanced up at you and offered you a warm smile. “What can I do for you, _mon petit chou?”_  … And then she saw the distraught look on your face. “Oh, no, darling! What happened? Did someone hurt you?!”  
  
You shook your head and gathered up all the dignity you possessed. “Someone killed my car. It's been defaced with every insult known to man and broken beyond my immediate repair. I don't have four spares… I need to talk to security, and maybe call for a tow…”  
  
And next thing you knew, you were giving a statement to the police as they gained permission from the Big Boss to examine the security tapes for evidence and clues. Moments after the police finished talking to you, your supervisor rushed over to your side. “I am so sorry about this, kid,” Rick sighed, rubbing his face dejectedly. “But I found this on your desk on my way out here. I think it might explain why you were targeted.”  
  
You waved over the closest officer and let Rick explain the note as you examined the contents. What you read made you bristle. “Those whiny little brats. This was a group effort,” you hissed, passing the note over to the officer with a curl to your lip. Without another word, you marched over to the gaggle of women that tittered and squabbled over to the side. You looked into each of their faces and determined which ones were guilty by their reluctance to meet your eye. In a low voice that froze the blood of all that stood near, you quipped, “Jealousy does not become you, _vers_.”  
  
_“Qu'est-ce que c'est?!!_ What is going on? Who am I to find for causing this mess?!”  
  
A snide remark from one of the invisible women standing towards the back of the group floated not only to your ears, but also the international fashion mogul, who was very displeased with the whole ordeal. “This trash's car got targeted, and she's the only one making a big deal out of it. She's always been such a drama queen!”  
  
The urge to kill grew tremendously, and you had to step back and away from the group, closing your eyes and breathing deeply to restrain that desire that was growing with each passing second.  
  
“… Well? Silly girl, are you the one who was targeted?”  
  
When you opened your eyes, your breath hitched in your throat. Icy blue, colder than tundra and pointed on you. You nodded numbly, unclenching your fists as you fought for control. “A case of jealousy, sir,” you supplied stiffly, coldly shutting out the disapproving faces of your fellow staff. “My car was defaced and broken by pitiful insects that only know how to speak for themselves when they think they're in danger of being discovered… They wanted to be put to work more closely with you, I believe, and they didn't like the fact that I have been put in a position to work on a closer level not only with you, but my boss as well. They're jealous I get to stand in the 'lime light' for this project.”  
  
“That's a lie!” another whined shrilly. “You're a slave driver, you little – !”  
  
“ENOUGH!” Cruelleur DeVil demanded, his eyes flashing dangerously. Even the city around the area seemed to quiet at his behest. _“Mademoiselle,_ you will ride with me. I have a lunch meeting _avec votre patron,_ to discuss the future of the collaboration…” He turned his icy stare to the gathered group. “And I'll be sure to mention the questionable staff. It appears there are only two employees he can count on – ” He returned to stare deeply into your eyes, reading the defiance towards cruelty and anger and hurt therein. “… You and your supervisor… _C'est dommage.”_  
  
You swallowed back a bitter laugh. “Thank you very much, _Monsieur DeVil,”_ you nodded, mechanically following the man to the awaiting white-and-black, sleek Panther Deville. Though you knew for a fact that the lunch meeting you had been emailed about wasn't for two more days. It was still very kind of him to rescue you like that… Though it will probably end up more like he had mentioned – explaining to your boss what had occurred and making plans to eliminate those responsible once the tapes were examined by the police. And whether or not you planned on pressing charges.  
  
“What's for lunch?” you wondered quietly to yourself, hoping that it wouldn't be something that would break your carefully constructed budget when you split the bill. And considering what you would have to explain over the meal to your boss, your belly was roiling with nerves.  
  
As if sensing your concern, the fashion mogul glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “Someplace your boss recommended. Apparently one of the **best** restaurants in the city,” he sniffed, doubtful.  
  
You felt the blood leave your face. Your boss was notorious for eating at really expensive restaurants, whenever he pleased. Whatever he recommended would certainly put you at eating ramen noodles, one by one, every night for a month. And if you had (potentially, this was a sudden meeting, after all) to do it _twice_ in one week? No way were you going to enjoy yourself. You could only hope that the menu actually noted the prices of the meal, otherwise you were left in the dust of being shamefully on-budget next to men whose entire existence depended on their indulgent whims…  
  
_“Calmez-vous._ Pet, you look like you're about to have kittens. And I'll have you know that if you make a mess in this car, you'll be the one to clean it.”  
  
The vague scent of cigarette smoke registered in the back of your mind, at last. Even so, you took a deep breath and forced yourself to calm down. There was no use worrying if you already had an idea of the worst possible scenario – and that ended in an emotional breakdown that would cost you your job (and possibly your career). And considering that you had prepared yourself for this pain, shouldn't you also be able to hope for the best? Another deep breath calmed you sufficiently enough to handle the situation as best you knew how – by remaining silent and waiting until you were spoken to. As far as you knew, you had nothing in common with the upper-class, European man, so the silence was as heavy and thick as the smoke he breathed.  
  
“… That'll kill you,” you uttered nonchalantly. You stared out the tinted windows blankly,but you knew that the fashion mogul was watching… You just _had_ to open your big, fat mouth, didn't you?  
  
Delicately, he tapped some of the cigarette ash into the ash tray to his right, lounging back in his seat. “Oh? And what do you care, darling?” From this much, you knew that your audacity to speak so familiarly amused him, at the moment.  
  
Your gaze locked with his for a brief moment before you tore it back to the passing world outside. “… I don't. I just don't fancy the idea of working with a walking corpse.”  
  
His eyes snapped to focus on your face, narrowed dangerously. You could've sworn that the temperature in the car dropped, too. “If I were you,” he intoned in a hiss, “I'd worry more about my own corpse rather than the one controlling my future with naught but a word.”  
  
“… Most women don't like the idea of kissing an ash tray.”  
  
You really didn't know when to shut up, and his expression told you as much.  
  
“But seriously,” you prattled, “you should stop before you end up with irreversible damage to your body. There's only so much makeup can do to a body before it becomes more of a mask than an enhancement…”  
  
His suddenly demure stare was definitely analyzing you from his relaxed position. “And I'm sure you're an expert in such matters, pet?”  
  
Heat gathered all unbidden to your face and neck. You knew he was referring to the fact that what little make-up you wore was very light, almost unnoticeable. A smear of lipgloss here, a brush of mascara there, some fine eyeliner, and a hint of golden glitter across your cheekbones was the usual suffice for work. You were digging yourself an even deeper early grave, and yet you still plowed on.  
  
“I… I wouldn't say that,” you managed to mumble, suddenly very interested in the oddly plush carpet of the interior.  
  
_“Mademoiselle…”_ he began, though he realized that he hadn't asked for your name.  
  
 You introduced yourself quickly. "I'm the one who was given the reigns for the current project,” you nodded, doing your best to avoid his chilling gaze.  
  
To your bewilderment and shock, a small, simpering chuckle filtered past the fashion mogul's lips. His posture remained relaxed, but his cool, focused eyes told you that he had vested quite a bit more interest in you than before. Chills ran up and down your spine the longer he stared. The urge to squirm under his gaze was so strong – it took all of your willpower to resist the need to fidget uncomfortably and maintain some element of professionalism and control.  
  
“Ah, I see then, pet, that we are going to be spending some quality time together for the next year or so. Are you so sure that you wish to be playing this game with me?” There was a smirk in his voice, you could hear it as clear as his eyes were blue. He was goading you, and he knew you were aware of it. “I can promise you that when I see something I want, I don't play fair to get it. I am a man of action, _ma pétite,_ and I do not hesitate to act when I've made a decision.”  
  
Tensing your shoulders resolutely, you forced your sight up from the floor and onto those twin, glassy, frozen pools. “Good for you,” you said, a demure, vaguely sarcastic lilt coloring your words. “But I'm sure I don't know what you mean, _Monsieur DeVil._ ”  
  
Another chuckle – this one causing you to shiver at its intensity at low volume – escaped the exceedingly attractive man with a huff of disbelief. “Oh, but I think you do, darling.” The irony was certainly not lost on you with all those pet-names. Even if they did tend to make your breath hitch in your throat every time he spoke them. “But have it your way. Just for this once. I'll let you believe whatever silly little fantasy you tell yourself, today. However, do us all a favor and remember not to cry when you get burned, in the end. I won't be held accountable for any hurt feelings…”  
  
He somehow took your awkwardness as a challenge, in the end. You gathered the scrambled bits of your focus and turned them into coherency at the last moment, just as the car pulled up to the restaurant. “… I think I'd be more like to get **_frostbite_** rather than a burn, sir.”  
  
Those icy blue eyes bore into your head. That smirk, that self-assured, smug smirk was going to be the thing of your most horrifying nightmares and darkest daydreams. And for once, Cruelleur De Vil leaned forward, capturing your hand and bringing it to his lips, brushing your knuckles ever so lightly as he searched your willpower and restraint, never losing contact with your gaze.  
  
“… Then let the games begin, pet.”  
  
  
  
You were quite certain that you were beginning to drown in pools of ice.


End file.
